


whatever you say, say nothing

by drcloyd



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Awkward Daryl, M/M, Witness Protection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2018-09-19 09:15:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9432257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcloyd/pseuds/drcloyd
Summary: It figured that the only time he'd ever left Georgia, it wasn’t as Daryl Dixon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from a song of the same name by Sea Wolf.

It figured that the only time he'd ever left Georgia, it wasn’t as Daryl Dixon. 

He was Daryl Drake now, a handyman from who-the-fuck-knows Virginia, looking for a new start after his business folded. He had a new license, a new hair cut (or rather, they told him to grow his hair out and dye it _black_ ) and apparently a college degree. He’d been forced to go to some orientation up in D.C then he’d been shipped over to Virginia, where he had a one-bedroom apartment rented out at the Alexandria Apartments. 

There wasn’t much to take into his new apartment. Most of the shit left in his trailer hadn’t been worth bringing out and they were giving him enough money to buy whatever he needed, things far better than he ever could have gotten when he’d been making fuck all following Merle around. The only thing he’d miss was his crossbow, but it didn’t look like there’d be much opportunity to hunt up here anyway. 

He clutched the cardboard box in his arms, staring at the modest apartments as the cab that’d dropped him off pulled away from the curb. It wasn’t a fancy place or anything, solidly middle class, but it was far nicer than anywhere Daryl’d ever lived. They’d given him some new clothes to wear, shit that he’d never have glanced at before – sweaters and button ups and jeans that didn’t have any holes or grease stains. He felt like he was in someone else’s skin, which, honestly, probably wasn’t a bad way to look at it. 

The sound of a car backfiring somewhere up the street brought him back from his wandering thoughts and he hefted the box a little higher, making his way through to the main entrance. It was one of those places with a main lobby, a wall of mailboxes immediately to his left when he walked in (after using the keycard – he had a damn keycard to get in – at least there wasn’t a door man) and elevators immediately ahead. 

He kept his head down, though there wasn’t anyone around and headed straight toward the elevator. His apartment was on the sixth floor and he didn’t feel like hefting the box all the way up the stairs, even though it wasn’t heavy at all. He pressed the elevator button, chewing absently on his lower lip while he waited for it to come back to the first floor. Part of him wanted to put the box down, turn around and find the first bus he could back to Georgia, even though they’d assured him the only thing waiting for him there was a gun to the back of the head. 

Or something like that. 

He didn’t give a shit – he wasn’t afraid to die or nothin’ – and he liked to think he could take care of his damn self, but if he wasn’t able to give the testimony it’d be Merle rotting in prison for the next twenty years instead of the next two. And Merle was a piece of shit on the best of days, but there wasn’t no way he was gonna leave him there, not if there was a way he could get around it. 

So. Here he was. 

The ding of the elevator prompted him to step forward, glancing up just enough to ensure there wasn’t anybody in there to run into before he slipped inside, turning to jab the sixth floor button.

“Hey! Can you hold the door?” 

The elevator doors started to close and all Daryl could see through the gap was some guy in running clothes hurrying forward, hair up in some sorta stupid bun, face partially obscured by a fuzzy beard, earbuds sticking out of his ears. Daryl stared at the buttons, not in the least sure which one would keep the doors from closing and lacking a free hand to shove in it – and so he could only stare as the man neared the elevator before the doors closed. 

Shit. 

The elevator gave a lurch as it started moving and Daryl pushed the incident from his mind. He didn’t really give a shit about anyone here, he’d be here for six months tops and then he’d be able to get back to his life. Or back to Georgia, anyway. Without Merle around he wasn’t sure what the hell he’d be doing. 

~~~

The apartment was clean, not overly spacious but not cramped either, an open floor plan with a hallway leading back toward what Daryl was gonna assume was the bedroom. Daryl closed the door behind him and set the box down on the floor. It was already furnished – a small kitchen table, a couch that undoubtedly lacked the stains that had covered the one in his old trailer, even a damn flat screen TV. 

If Daryl’d given a shit about things like that, he would have been impressed, but he didn’t know what the hell he’d use it for. Watching TV was just something to do when he was downing some cheap beer and working his way through a pack of cigarettes while Merle hung around with his asshole friends. 

Here, apparently, he’d have an actual job. Daryl’d never held down much of anything longer than a couple of weeks, nothing anything important or permanent. The idea of having a new job – one he’d have to keep at least for a while was daunting and he wasn’t gonna think about it until he had to, when he started in two days. They’d given him the weekend to get ‘adjusted’. 

He didn’t know what good that would do. Daryl didn’t think he’d be adjusted if they gave him twenty damn years to settle in.

He wandered the apartment, vaguely curious. He might as well see what kinda shit they’d hooked him up with. The living room wasn’t too big, room enough for the sofa and the tv, and a bookcase taking up one wall. It was filled with more knickknacks than books – stupid little animal statues and vague designs that Daryl’d never cared for – apparently even middle class people would shell out money for shit that looked like a damn kid could put it together. 

There were a few books too, titles Daryl’d never read and wasn’t particularly interested in starting now. He didn’t plan on having nobody over, so he wasn’t too worried about having to keep up some sorta story about his life. He paused in front of a shelf with a framed diploma from some technical college, teeth digging into the meat of his bottom lip. It felt weird seeing his first name scrawled on it. He chewed on his thumbnail, eyes squinting a bit as he shook his head. 

Ain’t none of this was real, none of it mattered. All he had to do was get through the next six months and he’d be home free. Those goddamn bastards would be behind bars and Daryl’d be able to go back to his shitty trailer and wait for his asshole brother to get out of jail. 

He moved on, stepping into the kitchen which had a tiny kitchen table, a fridge – one of the ones with water that dispensed from the door – and an electric stove. Daryl wasn’t much of a cook, never had been, so he imagined he’d be getting the most use out of the microwave above the stove. He opened the fridge, squinting at the meager contents. A head of lettuce, a bottle of horseradish and a block of cheese. Whoever’d been decorating the apartment for this thing had obviously lost inspiration when they’d gotten to the kitchen.

The cupboards were nearly bare too, stocked with tins of tuna and a lone box of bowtie pasta. Daryl grunted, shaking his head as he closed it and turned back toward the rest of the apartment. He had no clue where to start. He had fuck all to unpack and he didn’t feel like watching tv. And he sure as shit didn’t feel like going out to get beer or stepping foot outside the apartment. 

He sighed, heading over toward the window in the living room. It was already open and overlooked the parking lot out back. Behind that was another building – probably more apartments. A shit view. Not that he cared, anyway. He dug around in the pocket of his jeans until his fingers closed around the packet of cigarettes. 

He was just about to lift one to his mouth when a knock on the door startled him, cigarette falling out from between his fingers and to the floor. He cursed, picking it up and stuffing it back into his pocket as he made his way toward the door. He eyed the box on the floor where he’d packed his hunting knife, wondering if he should slide into his belt just in case. 

Nah. Probably just…a nosy neighbor or something. 

He peered through the peephole, shaking a bit of hair out of his eyes first. There was a man on the other side, tall, thin, with grizzled scruff on his cheeks and piercing blue eyes that were staring straight back at him. Or, the door at least. Daryl frowned, opening it with a wary sort of caution. 

The man eyed him up and down, gaze sharp and alert in a way that almost made Daryl squirm. There was something about him, something that made Daryl extra alert and he wasn’t sure why. “Who’re you?” he asked, gruff, not all that interested in making new friends or nothing.

“Rick Grimes,” the man said, and it was then Daryl noticed the dish in his hands. “Can I come in?” he asked. 

Daryl’s immediate urge was to say hell no, that he didn’t want whatever he had and he didn’t need nobody checking up on him, didn’t need no nosy ass neighbors. But there was something in the man’s eyes, a steeliness that told Daryl he might as well say yes. 

He grunted, stepping back to let the man through. 

Daryl shut the door behind him, turning to find the man’s sharp gaze scanning his apartment. When they finally returned to him, they seemed a little less intense, like Rick had been looking for something and been satisfied by what he’d found. 

“Sorry to barge in,” Rick said. “I couldn’t talk outside. Doubt anyone’s listening but they were real insistent about being careful. I work at the sheriff’s department, someone approached me from DC, told me about your case. Guess they want someone around who knows about the situation, just in case anything happens,” he explained. 

Daryl didn’t especially like the idea of someone keeping an eye on him, but apparently there wasn’t nothing he could do about it. Throwing up a fuss wasn’t gonna do Merle no favors. 

“I promise I’m not here to bother you, but if you need anything I’m down the hall. You hear anything suspicious or see anyone, you come and get me. I live with my son, if he opens the door you just tell him you’re maintenance and I’ll know it was you, alright?” 

“Alright,” Daryl grunted. Apparently that’s what what had put him on edge. Shit, he’d been dealing with enough cops, wasn’t no wonder he could sense ‘em on sight, out of uniform. He couldn’t say he was especially fond of them, though maybe that was just Merle’s influence. Rick seemed alright, though Daryl’s expression turned dubious as he held out the dish to him.

“Sorry, I’m not much of a cook but I thought it’d be good to keep up appearances. It’s a casserole,” he said, and Daryl continued eye it warily. In the end he took it though, cos it wasn’t like he had anything else to eat. 

“…Thanks,” he said, staring down at the dish. 

Rick pulled something out of his pocket and handed it over – a small card with a number scrawled on it. “It’s mine, in case you need to call.” Daryl shoved it in his pocket, though he sure as hell hoped he wouldn’t need it. If any of those fuckers followed him out here, shit, there wasn’t nothing Rick or nobody could do for him. 

“I’ll let you be,” Rick said, maybe sensing Daryl’s reluctance to get into a conversation, or interact much in general, or maybe he just had shit to do. “617’s my apartment,” he said, and then started off toward the door. 

“Have a good night, Mr. Drake,” he said as he opened it, and Daryl was thrown for a moment before he remembered that was his name. Of course the cop wasn't gonna use his real name, just in case. He gave him a nod, watched as the door closed. 

Daryl stood there for a beat or two, half-expecting another knock. Nothing came and his gaze turned toward the dish in his hands. A fucking casserole. He shook his head, hair falling into his face, and headed into the kitchen to stick it in the microwave.

He leaned against the counter, waiting for the microwave to go off, feeling even more out of place than before. When it was finished, he took the dish, grabbed a fork from a drawer (it took him three tries to find it, but he got it eventually) and sat down on the couch, the dish bleeding warmth through his jeans as he set it on his lap. 

He turned on the tv, flipping to some random black and white movie that he could ignore, and took a bite from the casserole.

He grimaced. 

Rick wasn’t kidding, he really wasn’t a good cook. 

But Daryl powered through it anyway, because it wasn’t like he hadn’t had worse, and tried not to think about Merle, or the assholes who wanted him dead, or how he was stuck in this place for the next six months, living the life of some stranger. 

He wasn’t all that successful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so i couldn't get this out of my head. un-betaed, hoping to update this once a week along with talking about love. fingers crossed i can keep up a schedule!


	2. Chapter 2

Day two of his new life started early.

The sun had barely risen before he was blinking himself awake, disoriented as he stared at blank white walls, lying on a mattress that wasn't lumpy as hell, no sound of Merle hollering about something or another bleeding through paper thin walls. It took a moment before things slid into place and he let out a breath, rubbing the heels of his hands over his eyes. 

Shit. 

Daryl laid there for a moment or two, looking up at the ceiling before he forced himself out of bed. Wasn't no use lying there wallowing about shit - he had to go get some food, find a vehicle. Honestly, after that he wasn't sure what he'd end up doing - sitting around getting shitfaced like usual didn't sound that appealing.

There was a bathroom attached to the bedroom, so he took a piss and splashed some water on his face, not feeling up to figuring out a new shower system. He got dressed in the clothes they'd left him - a button up flannel and a pair of jeans. It was closer to what he was used to but the jeans were free of holes and ground in dirt and the shirt still had the sleeves on it. 

There wasn’t too much in the cupboards still and he wasn’t a big breakfast person anyway, so he lit a cigarette near the window and puffed on it while he stared out at the parking lot. There weren’t too many cars – it wasn’t that big a place, anyway, and Daryl’s gaze scanned the lot lazily as he flicked ash over the sill. Maybe he’d find a phone book, see if there were any used car lots around here so he could find a piece of shit that would run long enough to – wait. 

His brow furrowed as he leaned over the sill, head out the window, eyes squinting as his gaze fixed on a motorcycle parked in one of the corner spots at the back of the lot. There was a cardboard sign on the front, for sale scrawled in neat handwriting, and a phone number that Daryl couldn’t quite pick up from this distance. 

He took a few more puffs from his cigarette then smashed it out on the sill, stuffing his feet into his boots as he headed out the door, remembering only at the last minute that he actually had keys to grab. It was quiet, there wasn’t nobody out at this hour on a weekend, and Daryl made his way to the parking lot without running into a single person.

Thank god. 

The air was a bit chilly as he stepped outside, his breath misting as he inhaled and let out a big lungful. It didn’t feel the same as Georgia air, but it was better than the stale air inside the apartment and it made him feel just a little more like himself. Then again, maybe that was a bad thing.

He probably shouldn’t even be looking at a bike. Was Daryl Drake the kinda guy who rode bikes? Daryl’d never had a bike of his own, he’d mostly ‘borrowed’ Merle’s when his brother was in the drunk tank, or off his ass on meth or booze, or both. But he’d liked riding them, and it wasn’t like nobody was gonna know – plenty of people rode bikes. He’d figure out a way to make it practical for work or something. 

It was a nice bike. A Nighthawk, it looked like. Could use a bit of work, but it wasn’t like Daryl wasn’t about to have a shitload of time on his hands. He circled it slowly, fingers trailing across the leather of the seat, over the gleaming handlebars, taking in every detail. It lacked any sort of personalization, but considering the sort of shit his brother adorned his bike with, that was a good thing. He chewed his lower lip for a moment, going back to the little cardboard sign. There wasn’t a price on there, just the phone number and a name – Aaron - but it wasn’t like Daryl had anything else to do with the money they’d given him to start off. 

He took his phone out of his pocket, thumbed the number in and hit save – it was still too early to be giving anyone a call on a Saturday. With one last look, he headed back inside, getting into the elevator without incident. He still didn’t like the idea of being here for the next however many months, but with a bike to work on, it might not be so bad. 

The elevator dinged and released him to his floor, still empty. Hopefully he didn’t have any annoying neighbors. The only person he’d seen yesterday had been Rick and he hadn’t been so bad, awful casserole withstanding – but Daryl doubted he’d be that lucky with the rest of ‘em. Maybe he’d never even meet them, that’d be fine by him. He’d never been much of a social butterfly and he wasn’t looking to start now, even if he did have the excuse of not being ‘himself’. 

Once he got to his apartment door he took his keys out of his pocket, twisting them in the lock. He didn’t look up, even when the door next to him opened – hopefully whoever it was wouldn’t give a shit they had a new neighbor, he didn’t think he could stomach any actual ‘howdy neighbor welcome to the complex’ – the pseudo one with Rick the night before had been bad enough. 

“Oh hey, elevator man!” 

Daryl’s head turned at that, eyes narrowing. He recognized the beard and the long hair from yesterday, only now the man was sans running gear but dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt for a band Daryl’d never heard of. He blinked, kept his mouth shut. 

“You just moved in, didn’t you?” The man continued, undeterred by his lack of response. “I’m Paul – but my friends call me, Jesus,” he said, and Daryl snorted.

“Ain’t callin’ you, Jesus.” 

“Paul’s fine then,” Paul said with a grin, holding out a hand. 

Daryl eyed it for a long moment, but Paul didn’t lower it, not even after a second turned into more than a few. He huffed, reaching out to shake it quickly, squeezing a bit tighter than was probably necessary. Paul didn’t even flinch. 

Shit. 

Looked like he was gonna have a nosy neighbor after all. 

“Do you have a name?” Paul asked, and he wasn’t smiling but Daryl could practically see his eyes twinkling, and he decided right then and there that he didn’t like this hippie at all. 

“Daryl,” he said, because he figured it’d be enough to get the guy off his back. 

“Daryl,” Paul repeated, like it was some sort of exotic name. “Yeah, I can see that...” he said, and Daryl narrowed his eyes. The hell was that supposed to mean? 

He grunted.

“Well, it was nice to meet you Daryl. I’ve got to run, but if you need anything just knock.”

And then he was gone. Daryl breathed a sigh of relief and shoved his door open. It didn’t feel like home, but at least nobody could try to talk to him in here. 

\---- 

Daryl parked himself on the sofa and flicked through shitty TV until a reasonable hour arrived, and he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He thumbed to the contacts screen and pressed the call button, holding the phone up to his ear as he moved over toward the window, squinting at the motorcycle, like it mighta gotten up and left since earlier. 

It was still there. 

He chewed absently at his thumb, waiting for someone to pick up. It was five rings before someone did, a smooth, male voice, the sound of someone in the background asking who it was. 

“Hello?”

Daryl released his thumb, shifting to lean against the windowsill. “This Aaron? ‘m calling bout the motorcycle,” he said. 

“…. motorcycle? Oh – yes, sorry, it’s been a while since I’ve had it out, I didn’t think anyone was interested.” 

“Saw it in the parkin’ lot actually, looks like it could use some work but I’m interested.” 

“Really? That’s great! I inherited it – but I’ve never been into bikes myself and I can’t really see myself riding it but uh – I’m sure you’re not interested in all that. I’m asking eight fifty, I really just want to get rid of it.” 

Daryl listened, brow furrowed as he stared out the window. He was silent for a few seconds, waiting to see if Aaron would start talking again. He didn’t and Daryl cleared his throat. 

“I’ll take it then,” he said – brows rising as a muffled voice bled through the line, someone asking ‘if he’d managed to sell the thing already’. There were a few more murmured words before Aaron’s voice was coming down the line again. 

“Great that’s – perfect. You said you saw it in the parking lot, does that mean you live at Alexandria?” 

“Just moved in,” Daryl said. 

“I can meet you down there now if you want?”

“Yeah, sure,” Daryl said. They hashed out a few more details before Daryl hung up. Well, that was one thing he didn’t have to worry about anymore, although it did take him a few minutes to figure out where his wallet was. They’d given him a new checkbook too – not that Daryl’d ever really used his old one, he’d always paid for shit in cash – complete with blank checks with his new name on ‘em. 

He’d been worried they were gonna have some stupid shit on ‘em like puppies or kittens or something, but they were thankfully a bland, undecorated kind. He scribbled out a check for the right amount and shoved it in his pocket along with his phone as he headed back outside. 

Aaron wasn’t there yet, so Daryl took a few minutes to look the bike over again. He should have enough to buy the parts he’d need, make a few upgrades, though it looked like it would run well enough now. He’d tinkered around with Merle’s bike some over the years, but he’d never had one of his own to get his hands on and he was actually looking forward to the opportunity. 

It might just be the one good thing that could come from this whole damn situation. 

Five minutes later, a man he was going to assume was Aaron, approached. “Hey, Daryl, right?” he asked.

Daryl nodded. 

“Well, this is it,” he said, nodding toward the bike. “It still runs, I haven’t taken it out, really, but we had it down on a lot down the street and it made it back just fine.” 

Daryl grunted, taking the check out of his pocket. “Here,” he said, and Aaron took the check, giving him a smile. 

“That was easy,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve been trying to sell this thing for half a year. I was just going to let it rust back here,” he said. 

Daryl listened, though his attention was more on the bike as he took off the cardboard sign and handed it back to Aaron. Maybe tomorrow he could head up and find some parts for it. He might not get to do much work on it just yet, but he could get a start. 

“You said you just moved here?” Aaron asked. Daryl made a vague affirmative noise. 

“My boyfriend, Eric, and I, have spaghetti dinners on Wednesdays. We usually invite a few friends – and it might be weird, I know you just bought a motorcycle so that doesn’t really make us friends, but I know what it’s like moving to a new place.” 

Daryl’s head ducked, gaze fixed on the handlebars, pretending like he was actually looking at them. He didn’t wanna make no friends here, hell, he wasn’t sure he’d ever really made a friend his whole life. There was the shitheads Merle hung around with and some of ‘em weren’t terrible, but then again, look where that had gotten him. 

But he didn’t wanna be a dick. Aaron could decide he wanted to sell the bike for a couple grand like he could probably get after all (though, Daryl’s gut told him he wouldn’t) and hell, that was one less meal he had to cook himself.

“No pressure, just something to think about,” Aaron continued in the wake of his silence. 

Daryl shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Maybe.” 

He looked up in time to catch Aaron’s smile. 

“We’re apartment five ten, just come over around seven on Wednesday if you want,” he said, and Daryl nodded. Daryl continued to look the bike over as Aaron headed back into the building.

He let out a breath. 

At least he had a bike now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might come back and edit later. sorry this took so long!


	3. Chapter 3

Monday morning came round real early. Daryl was already staring up at the ceiling by the time his alarm blared and he silenced it with a heavy hand. He’d never had a real job before, not really. He trailed after Merle, and they lived off whatever Merle made, or sometimes they scrounged up a bit from the state. Shit, that was pathetic wasn’t it. He was over forty, never had no real job in his life, and the only reason he got one now was because he was in goddamn witness protection. The paychecks wouldn’t even be under his _real_ name. 

Daryl pushed himself into a sitting position and swung his legs out of bed, unable to stand the thought of lying there with those thoughts circling his head until he made himself late. Instead, he headed in and took a lukewarm shower, eyes narrowed into slits as he eyed his dyed hair in the mirror. Too damn dark, but he looked a bit different, at least. And the longer hair was comforting, almost. Hid his eyes, if he held his head right. 

Someone from where he’d been hired had called yesterday, told him they’d set him up with a truck when he came in and give him a few clients to settle him in. He’d never been much of a handyman or nothin’, but enough shit in their trailer broke that he didn’t feel as if he’d be completely unprepared. Merle would just let shit sit, ignoring the fact that it was broken, but Daryl’d never been able to do that. He had to fix it, eventually, even if it took a while for him to get the parts. 

And he tinkered a lot on bikes. Shit, they shoulda hooked him up with a job at the mechanics. That would have suited him just fine. He hoped they didn’t have no stupid overalls or nothing for a uniform for this place – Daryl knew he needed money, but he wasn’t desperate enough to be wearing anything like that. 

He grabbed a granola bar on his way out – it’d been a bitch getting shit home on that motorcycle, but he had gone shopping in the end – and headed off to work. 

\---

People were goddamn stupid. 

Daryl roared into the parking lot, revving the engine a little more than needed as he sped toward the parking spot and parked the bike. Now he remembered why he’d never had no real job before. He was never real good at interacting with other people, and the awkwardness of being in other people’s houses coupled with the stupidity of their problems made him incredibly uncomfortable. 

Who the hell couldn’t put a hammer to nail? Hell, he was pretty sure there were videos online that would tell you just how to do something (not that Daryl would actually know how to find these videos). Instead, they called a handyman and then sat there trying to make small talk while he had his head shoved in a cupboard trying to fix a broken shelf. 

It’d made him feel cagey, annoyed, and by the end of the day he’d returned the truck and hightailed it on his bike. They’d made him take the toolbox home though – said it was his responsibility and if anything was taken it’d come out of his pay. So he’d bungee corded it to the back of his bike and now he had to haul it all the way up stairs. Or, at least to the elevator. 

The lobby was empty when he came in – it was nearing six in the evening, so presumably everyone was eating dinner or whatever the shit it was people did, and he made it inside the elevator without incident. The ride up to his floor was quiet. When the doors opened he made a bee-line to his apartment, just in time for the door next to his to open and the long-haired hippie to spill out. He stopped short when he saw Daryl, a grin on his face as he looked him up and down. Inexplicably, his eyes lit up when they landed on the toolbox.

“Oh you’re a - ” he started, but the rest of his sentence was lost as Daryl finally got the damn door open and in the next second he was inside with it firmly shut behind him.

He breathed out, setting the box down on the floor. 

Shit. He only had to be here six months, so it really shouldn’t matter if his neighbors gave a shit about him or not, but this was the second time he’d blown off the hippie (although last time had been an accident) and he didn’t want him setting dog turd surprises on his doorstep or something. 

He turned back to the door and opened it, only to find the hall empty. 

Damn. 

He’d tried though, or had been about to, and that was all that counted, right? 

He shut the door behind him again and surveyed the apartment. It felt too clean, too far removed from where he’d come from. More like something he’d see flipping through a magazine than anything he’d ever thought he’d come home to. He’d never wasted no time wishing he could have gotten out of where he’d grown up. Sure, he and Merle did leave their hometown, but it was just to other towns as run down and shitty as they last they’d left, so it wasn’t really leaving. 

There wasn’t nothing he could do about it though, so he toed off his boots and padded into the kitchen to reheat one of the frozen meals he’d gotten from the store. He ate it methodically after waiting for it to cool enough for him not to burn his mouth, then watched a bit of TV – nothing he’d remember in the morning, and headed off to bed. 

He woke the next morning and repeated it all again, and hoped to hell that it wasn’t going to be six months of this. 

A sinking feeling told him it probably would. 

\---

“Daryl!” Aaron said brightly, a warm smile on his face, although he seemed a bit surprised, like he hadn’t expected Daryl to actually show. He ushered him in though, and Daryl gave a grunt as he stepped through the doorway and was immediately shown toward the dining area.

It was a fairly big table, room for eight or so people, only half full at the moment. Food was on the table, but it didn’t look like anyone had started eating yet. “Daryl, this is Eric, my boyfriend,” he said, gesturing toward a thin, ginger haired man sitting at the far side of the table. Eric waved. “And that’s Tara,” he said, pointing toward a dark haired woman next to Eric. “Her girlfriend, Denise,” he added, to a woman with glasses, sitting opposite Tara. He nodded with a grunt at the both of ‘em. “We’re still waiting on one more person, but he texted to say he was on his way.” 

Daryl shifted awkwardly – introductions were weird, even weirder when he was being introduced to everyone all at once. He swallowed, chewing on his lower lip, before Aaron took pity on him. “Oh – you can sit right there next to Denise,” he said helpfully, and Daryl slunk into the seat, blinking at the other occupants of the table, whose eyes were all fixed on him. 

After a beat or two of awkward silence, Tara leaned forward with a smile. “So. Daryl. You’re new to the building, right?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” he said, and it was just barely more than a grunt. 

“Cool,” she said, although Daryl wasn’t really sure what was so cool about it. “Denise and I just moved here a couple of months ago. It’s our first place together,” she said, and there was something in her voice that made Daryl look away, or maybe that was just the hearts he could practically see in her eyes as she stared at the woman across from her. “Aaron and Eric have been super helpful, I’m going through the Academy and Denise has shifts at the hospital so we didn’t have a lot of time to get settled in, mostly we’ve just been spending our time -”

The woman beside him cleared her throat abruptly, squirming in her seat as Daryl turned to squint at her. Tara seemed to get the message though and looked sheepish. “Uh, yeah. So uh welcome to the neighborhood! These guys can definitely help you out if you need anything,” she ended with. 

“She’s right,” Eric said, and Daryl turned his attention to the other man. “Aaron and I would be more than happy if you ever need anything – cup of sugar, milk, whatever else it is neighbors borrow from each other,” he grinned. Daryl gave another nod. 

Usually it was Merle with his big damn mouth that did all the talking, Daryl’d never really had no cause. So he could only grunt and be mildly relieved when Aaron jumped and started talking about the food. Organic, some of the spices grown on their windowsill garden – Daryl listened, hair falling in front of his eyes, and tried not to feel so out of place.

They were all…nice. He couldn’t find nothing wrong with ‘em, nothing annoying – like the people whose ceiling light he’d had to fix that day, and if he could just fucking relax he knew it wouldn’t be so bad. Six months of this, it might be nice not to have to make his own frozen dinner every night, right? 

Daryl gave himself a mental kick and reached out to heap some of the meat that was being passed around, vowing to try a little harder. Worst that could happen was they didn’t invite the quiet, grungy-haired asshole back for dinner next week. 

And then the doorbell rang. 

Which would have been nothing, if the man Aaron got up to let in wasn’t the stupid hippie from the apartment next-door. 

Jesus christ.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so...life keeps happening. i spent earlier this week stuck in bed with a stomach bug and i have family over until ??? (whenever they decide to leave i guess) so writing time is scarce. hopefully there will be another chapter of talking about love tomorrow, as i've two days off work.


	4. Chapter 4

If Paul seemed surprised to see him here, he didn’t show it. The smile on his face was every so slightly crooked when Aaron introduced them, his eyes crinkling up the tiniest bit as he offered a hand to Daryl. Daryl took it, because he didn’t know what else to do and squeezed hard on reflex. Paul didn’t even flinch, just met his gaze with a quirked brow and squeezed back. 

Daryl’s hand curled into a fist as he pulled it back, before he forced his fingers to loosen enough to pick up his fork. Around him conversation continued. It was obvious they did this every week – bits and pieces of pasts topics bleeding through as they caught up on each others lives. Occasionally, they’d try to drag Daryl in, but didn’t seem put off when all he offered up was a few grunts, shrugs and ‘dunnos’. 

He did answer a few questions about where he’d moved from, what he was doing here, but they were vague – he knew his backstory, sure, but he hadn’t memorized it and the less he said the easier it would be not to fuck up in the future. Not that he planned on gettin’ close to ‘em or anything, but he figured that with six months living in the same building, they might have more conversations down the line. 

And they seemed interested – the whole lot of ‘em – but respectful of his reticence to talk. Who was to say that would hold. 

He kept his attention mostly on his food, eyes occasionally raising when there was a lull in conversation or someone addressed him – and it was only because Paul was sitting across from him that his gaze kept landing on him. And it seemed to be the same for Paul, because every time Daryl looked up his gaze briefly connected with the other man’s, his stomach swooping every goddamn time before he looked back at his plate. 

Despite that the dinner was…hell, it was nice. He’d never had no dinner around a dining room table before – hell, he’d never had enough friends to do it before (not that they were his friends) but he didn’t hate it. By the time all the plates were cleared and conversation started to meander, Daryl was starting to feel like he might not mind turning up next week, even if it meant seeing the hippie from next door. 

Eventually though, there was talk of moving toward the living room for drinks and while Daryl hadn’t hated it, he wasn’t sure he was ready for more and he made his excuses as the group stood. 

“Got ‘n early mornin’,” he said, directing it toward Aaron. It was true enough, though Daryl’d never really been the type that slept all that much. Nightmares were easier to escape from when you weren’t actually sleeping. 

He nodded as Denise and Tara said goodbyes, followed by Eric and then Aaron, who shook his hand and told him he was more than welcome to come back the next week. Daryl didn’t say whether he’d go or not, but he at least wasn’t already coming up with a million reasons to get out of it. 

Paul’d gone into the kitchen to get something, but Daryl wasn’t about to wait around for him to get out to say goodbye or anythin’, so he headed toward the door. The hallway was empty and Daryl tugged the door closed behind him, or at least tried to. Something jerked it back and Daryl turned, only to find Paul grinning back at him. “This is becoming a bit of a habit, isn’t it?” he said, giving the door a little shake. 

“Didn’t know you were gonna be followin’ me,” he pointed out, eyeing the man with narrowed eyes from behind his hair. 

“Well. We are neighbors. I figured we could share the elevator.” 

“It’s just one floor, was gonna take the stairs,” he said, just to be contrary. 

Paul shrugged. “Stairs it is then.” He called a goodbye to the group behind him and came out into the hallway, forcing Daryl to take a few steps back unless he wanted Paul backing into him. 

“What did you think of dinner?” Paul asked, heading toward the stairwell. Daryl thought about turning toward the elevator just to leave him, but in the end he found himself following after him, his voice echoing a bit in the stairwell as he answered. 

“Was alright,” he said. 

Paul turned to look at him as he started down. “Aaron and Eric were the first people I met when I moved in last year. Actually, they saw me struggling to get my things out of the moving truck on their way in and stopped to help.”

It seemed to be a theme with the two of them, at least based on what Tara and Denise had said about them too. Daryl could see it though; Aaron had invited Daryl to dinner after only knowing him ten minutes. It’d taken people longer than that just to stop eyeing Daryl with ill-concealed suspicion (to be fair, that look was often directed at him when he was around Merle, and with his loud, foulmouthed brother, that look was more than warranted). 

“They seem nice,” Daryl allowed, because he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that. 

Paul made a noise of agreement and shouldered open the door to their floor, holding it for Daryl. 

“I was going to ask before,” Paul started as they neared their doors, and Daryl turned his head to eye him, frowning as Paul made a point to step in front of his door, like he expected Daryl to open it and slam it behind him. 

Daryl grunted, figuring there was no way he could avoid a conversation if Paul wanted to have it, unless he wanted to bodily force the other man out of the way. And – well, Daryl wasn’t that desperate. Paul was alright, he supposed, annoying – but not malicious about it. 

He wasn’t about to be his friend or anything though. 

“You’re a handyman, right? I saw your toolbox.”

Well. That hadn’t been what Daryl was expecting. He shrugged. “Yeah.” 

“Well, you’re in luck,” Paul said. Daryl’s brow raised. Paul grinned.

“I’m always breaking things and I tip very well.” His grin turned into a smirk and Daryl huffed, looking away. 

“Whatever, long as I ain’t gotta do it for free,” he said, wondering when Paul was going to move out of the way so he could get inside. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay whatever your hourly rate is. And I’ll throw in a beer,” he said. Daryl couldn’t argue with that. “I’ve got a kitchen chair that’s super wobbly, if you want to stop by tomorrow?” 

Daryl sighed. “Yeah, sure,” he grunted. “I’ll stop by after work,” he said. Six months. He could do this. Whatever cash he had after this, he could use to fix up that bike once he got back home.

Paul smiled and stepped back, moving to open his own door. “See you tomorrow then.” 

And this time it was Paul who closed his door before Daryl could get in a reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's short and there's been a wait. i don't have a plan for where this is going and i got a bit stalled. next weekend i'll be out of town for my grandfather's memorial so idk when i'll be updating again. hopefully not too long!


	5. Chapter 5

Daryl tugged his helmet off and sat there, engine thrumming between his legs, trying not to give into the urge to chuck the helmet against pavement. Today had been…. shit. It wasn’t that Daryl didn’t like working – after so long following Merle around, getting drunk off their asses (or in Merle’s case, high as a kite) before most people were getting home from their cubicles, he could appreciate some honest work. That part, he didn’t mind. 

It was more the people. 

Three broken cupboards, one busted window pane, and various menial jobs had kept him busy all day and each house had a different person yakking in his ear. It was fine when they offered him water or something – that was nice and he appreciated it, but when they sat and watched him, asking about his personal life, trying to make small talk, it made him feel like he was under a goddamn magnifying glass (and he definitely wasn’t ever thinkin’ bout that old woman who’d kept eyeing up his biceps like they were a five course meal, and had then proceeded to tell him that there were other things in the house he could hammer). 

By the time he’d left his last job, he’d been ready to hop on his bike and drive straight on back to Georgia, his brother’s trial and those asshole drug dealers be damned. At least that place was familiar. He missed his shitty trailer (well, he didn’t miss it exactly, but he did miss how he didn’t feel like he was putting on airs every time he stepped inside) and his stupid dumbass brother. 

He hooked the helmet over the bike and cut the engine, getting off the bike before he spent another five minutes wastin’ gas and gettin’ all maudlin bout shit he couldn’t control. He grabbed the tool box, pocketing his motorcycle keys before heading into the building. 

The lobby wasn’t empty like it had been the few other times he’d been down here and Daryl stopped to glare suspiciously at the young couple pushing a baby stroller in through the doors. They both looked dog-tired, but happy in a way that almost made Daryl want to look away. He jammed the button for the elevator, but it was taking its sweet ass time up on the top floor and he was unable to get away before the two of them came to stand in front of him.

The woman gave him a smile, though most of her attention was on the man with her, who had a tiny little blanket in the crook of his arm and looked like he was afraid he might drop the thing at the slightest breeze. 

He thought he’d be able to avoid small talk – they seemed occupied enough with the baby – but the man looked up, his expression still soppy. “Oh hey!” he said, with a grin. Daryl managed something approaching a flicker of a grimace back, but it didn’t seem to deter him. 

“You new?” the kid asked and Daryl cursed the fact that everyone in this damn building was so damn friendly. What happened to ignoring your neighbors unless they were pissin’ in your yard or or had a case of moonshine to share or somethin’? Then again, things obviously worked differently here. 

“Yeah,” he grunted, eyeing the two of them warily. 

“Thought so,” the man said. “I’m Glenn,” he said, giving the baby in his arms a little rock. “This is Maggie,” he said, looking over toward the woman, fixing her with a grin so bright Daryl actually did look away then. “And this right here,” he continued, voice softening, “is Hershel.” 

Daryl eyed the bundle. He could only see the face from the blanket – he looked like a perfect mix between the two of them, with his mother’s round nose and his father’s almond eyes. 

“You’re actually the first one here that gets to meet him,” Glenn said, practically radiating excitement and nervousness. Maggie was leaning against his side, looking exhausted, and Daryl could see the hospital band peeking out from beneath her shirtsleeve.

“Congrats,” he said, because they seemed like a nice couple and he might never want no kids himself, but they were obviously happy. 

Daryl wasn’t sure he deserved the honor. 

The elevator dinged and Daryl took one look at the two of them, the tiny bundle in Glenn’s arms, and made a decision. 

“Cute kid,” he said, nodding toward the tufts of hair peeking out from the blanket. “I’ll just…,” he added, throwing his free hand toward a random direction - wasting no time in going for the stairwell door. No way in hell was he gettin’ stuck in an elevator with a tiny baby, specially when the kid had started making plaintive whimpering noises as Daryl started walking away. 

He hoofed it up the six flights and by the last step he was seriously regretting his decision. There was a line of sweat at his hairline as he opened the stairwell door - he wasn’t out of shape, really, but there sure as hell weren’t this many stairs in the trailer park back in Georgia – and stepped onto his floor. At least there wasn’t nobody out out here.

He could see his door from here and he could almost taste the cigarette he’d light up as soon as he got in there. Heat up one of those frozen dinners and he’d be golden. And then he made the mistake of looking up and his gaze caught on Paul’s door – the Paul that he’d told he’d stop by after work today and fix his stupid broken chair or whatever. He groaned inwardly – Paul definitely took him as the type to go a’knockin’ if Daryl didn’t show up and he didn’t wanna get all settled inside and then have to haul the damn toolbox back over. 

The chair should be an easy fix, he could get in, screw some shit and then be back in twenty minutes. Tops. He’d take that promised beer t’go, too. Shoulders set, he turned toward Paul’s door and gave it a hard knock. Maybe he wouldn’t be home? That’d be nice – he could just - 

“Daryl!” 

Shit. The door swung open to reveal Paul, dressed in jeans and an olive short sleeve, his hair down around his shoulders. He looked flushed, cheeks all pink and Daryl resolutely stopped his mind from wandering down any paths it might want to wander down. 

He grunted, in greeting. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” Paul said, eyeing him speculatively as he stepped back and ushered him in. “Thought I was going to have to come over here for sure,” he added, closing the door behind them as Daryl dragged his feet on the way in. 

“Yeah, well,” Daryl said, glancing around the apartment. “’m here.” 

The place looked a lot more lived in than Daryl’s, with bookshelves along the walls crammed with books, some spilling out onto piles on the floor. The kitchen table was covered in papers, and the wall right near the door had hooks for hats and coats. There was a long leather duster, some sort of holster (?), a fishing hat and, inexplicably, a bib from one of those lobster places (not that’d Daryl’d ever been to one, but the thing said lobster on it so he was feelin’ confident enough to take a stab in the dark). 

“You are,” Paul agreed, standing there in his bare feet, hands folded in front of him. Daryl dragged his attention back, feeling a bit awkward having been caught scoping his place out. 

“The chair’s over here,” Paul continued, unnecessarily. The place had the same open floor plan as Daryl’s and he could see the lopsided chair from here. 

Daryl gave another grunt and followed him over. He bent down, giving the wobbly chair a shake. It made a noise a chair definitely shouldn’t make and Daryl frowned. “The hell’d you do to it?” Daryl asked. Paul was slim and nowhere near large enough to do any damage to a chair like this. He glanced up, squinting at the other man. 

“It….got in my way,” Paul said, evasively, looking halfway between amused and embarrassed. Daryl eyed him for a moment more before deciding he really didn’t care and went back to staring at the chair. 

“Can fix it, I guess,” he said. He had some nails and hammer in the toolbox, or he could probably hook it up with some wood glue. He shifted, turning the chair over so he wouldn’t have to lie on the floor to get at it. 

“Good, I’m happy to hear it,” Paul said, and then went quiet. Daryl fussed with the chair for a moment or two, but he could feel Paul’s gaze on him. It made him feel twitchy, almost nervous, and after a minute of it he had to look up. Paul was watching him curiously, and Daryl couldn’t tell if it was him Paul was curious about or what he was doing to the chair. 

He wasn’t gonna ask. 

“Y’said somethin’ bout a beer?” Daryl said, because he couldn’t think of anything else and Paul seemed content enough just watching. A smile flickered over the other man’s face at that and he nodded. 

“I did, didn’t I?” he said, turning toward the fridge. Daryl shook his head and went back to tinkering with the chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I'm on spring break, finally! Hopefully this means multiple updates. I am, however, also moving so we'll see :l


	6. Chapter 6

Two beers later and Daryl had his head stuck under the kitchen sink, squinting dubiously at the pipes while Paul aimed a shaky flashlight over his shoulder. 

“Hold it still,” he groused, about five seconds away from reaching back to snatch it from him to hold himself. It’d be awkward, but he was starting to get damn motion sickness with the way it kept bouncing around. 

“Sorry,” Paul said and the beam steadied. 

Daryl had fixed the chair in awkward silence, occasionally broken by Paul’s attempt at small talk. He’d asked about the weather, Daryl’s boots, the company he worked for and where he’d moved from and had gotten grunts in response to each and every inquiry. Eventually he’d seemed to catch on and had gone silent, though somehow that’d been worse. 

The chair was an easy fix, though it took a little longer than it should have cos Daryl kept taking pulls of beer like his life depended on it. And when he’d downed the last of it, Paul had hopped down off his perch on the counter and brought him another one without saying a word. 

Now, Daryl was a little more relaxed, his shoulders no longer migrating toward his ears when Paul so much as took a breath, but he was still overly aware of the other man’s position behind him. He shifted, his broad shoulders a tight fit beneath the counter, trying to torque the wrench without jabbing his shoulderblade against the wood. He squinted, fighting the urge to wipe his hair out of his eyes – which he wouldn’t have been able to do anyways, this goddamn space was too small – grunting as twisted the wrench, his shoulder straining uncomfortably. 

The flashlight dipped, throwing him into darkness and Daryl spat out a curse. “Damnit P-” he started, immediately interrupted by a soft apology and the light steadying again. 

“How many damn beers y’had?” he grumbled, though last he’d seen Paul was still nursing the same beer he’d had since the start. There was a muffled reply, it sounded vaguely amused but Daryl didn’t care enough to wriggle his way out again to ask for clarification. He continued until he was fairly sure he’d fixed the issue and then called out for Paul to turn on the water. 

He waited, the light disappearing as Paul got up and did as he asked. The water flowed through the pipe and there was no leak – Daryl even stuck his hand out to make sure. Any idiot with a wrench coulda done the same but Daryl guessed he couldn’t complain much considerin’ the two beers he’d drunk. Might just make his job more tolerable if this was how it was at all the customer’s houses (then again, he wasn’t sure he wanted t’see that little ol’ lady drunk – he could only imagine how much bolder she’d get). 

“’s fixed,” he called out and the water stopped. 

Now all he had to do was get on out from under here and he’d be free t’go home. 

Which, as it turned out, was a hell of a lot easier said than done. 

The space was tight and his coordination was a hair off thanks to the beers he’d downed, and no matter how much he wriggled he couldn’t seem to make any progress. 

“Do I need to get some butter or something?” Paul asked, and Daryl could practically hear the grin in his voice. 

“Shut up,” he growled, trying to back out without knocking the pipe out of alignment and who the fuck had designed this thing anyway? He wriggled some more, shifting over to his side with a grunt so he had more room to work with, the wood on the doorframe scraping painfully against his back. A hand on the side of his knee caused him to jump, and he nearly brained himself on the pipe in front of him. He swallowed a curse, mostly cos his breath had gone all tight in his chest and he wasn’t sure what the hell would come out his mouth if he opened it. 

“Hold on,” Paul said, amusement still in his voice, but softer. 

The hand on his knee left, but returned, settling on his hip and Daryl twitched. “Turn, just a little,” Paul said, seemingly oblivious and Daryl swallowed, feeling like an idiot, and attempted to follow the direction. The nice buzz he’d had going had dissipated by the time he managed to emerge, thanks to a half dozen directions from Paul, all given with a hand tapping against his hip, like he might not know what he was sayin’ otherwise. 

He blinked when he finally emerged into the light, his face flushed, hair sticking slightly to his face with the sweat he’d built up (in his defense it’d been hot under there and wriggling around like some damn nightcrawler hadn’t exactly helped either). Paul’d scooted back a bit, but he was crouched down, a stupid grin on his face. 

“I thought you were going to have to live down there,” he said, and Daryl shot him a scowl, tossing the wrench into his open toolbox. Paul merely laughed. 

“Gonna need another beer, jus’ for that,” he said, sitting up with a wince. He was gettin’ too old for shit like that. Paul didn’t say anything else, just brought over a beer. Daryl took it, scooting back to rest against the counter and pried the top off. It was some weirdass hipster beer, the kind with some fancy name and hint of orange or whatever, but it wasn’t bad. Different from the usual weak shit he got from the gas station back home but he wasn’t about to admit it. He studied the bottle, keepin’ his gaze away from Paul, tryin’ to let his damn heart settle in his chest. 

He took a pull, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“My shower’s a little leaky....” Paul said, and Daryl glanced up to find his mouth curved into an amused smirk. 

“Fuck off,” he said, without heat, taking another pull of his beer, something inexplicably warm filling his chest. It was new – the whole joking with someone without worryin’ they were gonna pull a gun, or knowin’ that sooner or later he was gonna piss Merle off (sooner, usually, if he were drunk or high). He didn’t really know what to do with it. Sittin’ round that table at Aaron ‘n Eric’s had been awkward but...nice, somehow. He felt like some stray who’d come wanderin’ up off the streets, flea ridden and mangy as hell, but he hadn’t felt unwelcome. And sitting here on Paul’s kitchen floor, hell, that was awkward too but in a nice sort of way. He rubbed his thumb over the condensation on the beer’s label. 

“Thanks, by the way,” Paul said, after a few more minutes of silence as they both nursed their beers. Daryl glanced up, squintin’ at him from behind his hair – shit, he wished he could get a damn hair cut – and gave a dismissive little gesture with his shoulders. “I’ve got the money in my wallet,” Paul added, nodding over toward the door where Daryl was assumin’ his wallet was in his coat or somethin’. 

He grunted, givin’ his head a shake. “Nah, beer was enough, if y’give me one t’take home,” he said, realizing he’d hadn’t really intended to take any money from him from the start. Wasn’t this what neighbors did after all? Were all neighborly? Daryl didn’t dare think about it being what friends did because he was sure a dinner and pokin’ around some pipes didn’t make a friendship. 

“I can do that,” Paul said, giving a slight incline of his head and a smile that made something curl in the pit of Daryl’s stomach. 

They sat in silence for a little longer while Daryl took sips from his beer. He didn’t feel any need to say anything but what was surprisin’ was the fact that he didn’t feel like Paul wanted him t’say anything. He was just sitting there, back against counter diagonal from him, beer resting on his knee looking content enough. Daryl chewed on his lower lip and tried not to stare. 

“Should get goin’,” he said, when there was only a swallow left in his bottle. “Gotta work tomorrow,” he said, though he wasn’t sure why. Didn’t owe Paul no explanation or nothin’. 

“Oh,” Paul said, and Daryl eyed him, wonderin’ if that was disappointment he heard. But the other man got to his feet quickly enough, offering a hand that Daryl eyed but didn’t take as he got to his own feet. “I’ll leave you a good review on Yelp,” he said, which earned him a brief blank stare from Daryl. 

He snorted, downed the last bit of his beer and set it on the counter. 

“I wasn’t kidding about the leaky shower,” Paul added. “If you’ve got time this week,” he said. Daryl squinted at him. “There’s more beer in it for you. Could order food, too,” he said, eyes bright, his grin crooked. There was that feeling in the pit of his stomach again. He shrugged. 

“Yeah, guess I could...” He didn’t really have nothin’ better to do, and if he could knock out two dinners that’d be two less microwaveable meals he’d have to buy (he realized he was fully intending to go to Aaron’s again the coming week for their Wednesday dinner). 

Paul grinned. “Good.” Then he went to the fridge and brought back a beer for Daryl, pushing the cool bottle into his hand. “Let me know what day works for you,” he said, and Daryl nodded with a vague grunt. 

He lingered for another awkward moment before he eyed Paul, not sure if he was supposed to say something, and ended up just giving him a little nod and turning toward the door. He could feel Paul behind him, following him toward the door. He clutched the beer in his hand, knuckles turning white, feeling warm and alert all at once, something skating up his spine, like some kind of static shock. 

He swallowed against it, put it down to the beer. 

The door opened and he paused, half-turning to find Paul holding onto the edge, watching him with a gentle sort of gaze. “Have a good night, Daryl,” he said, warmly, and Daryl swallowed, nodding. 

“Yeah uh – you too,” he said, shifting out into the hall. Paul took a step forward, wedging himself between the door and the doorframe, bringing him just a bit closer into Daryl’s space. “Try not t’break anythin’ else,” he said, head ducking. 

“I’ll try,” Paul said, in a way that told him he probably wasn’t gonna try very hard at all. Daryl eyed him for a long moment, overly aware of the other man. 

Daryl drew in a breath – wasn’t sure what for, t’say goodnight, or call him on his bullshit, but something shifted in Paul’s gaze, became a little more distant and he flashed Daryl a quick smile. 

“See you later, Daryl,” he said, and the smile was the same, but as the door closed it left Daryl feeling a little off-kilter. He frowned. He wasn’t about to stand in front of his door, starin’ at it like he expected it to open again and so he stepped back, turned toward his own door and fished his keys out of his pocket, shoving the door open. 

He pried the beer top off as he crossed the threshold, taking a good long pull. 

He wasn’t going to think about Paul, or that pull in his gut. He was just gonna finish the beer, take a shower, go to bed. 

And that’s what he did. 

His head hit the pillow, hair still slightly damp, and for a long moment he just stared up at the ceiling, thoughts a little syrupy thanks to the alcohol. He wasn’t drunk – shit, Paul didn’t have enough beer t’get him drunk – but he was edging tipsy, and it wasn’t half bad. For the first time since he’d gotten here he felt.... alright, almost. Less out of place. 

Then, out of nowhere, he realized he’d forgotten his toolbox in Paul’s kitchen. 

Fuck. 

He eyed the clock and swore. Past midnight. He didn’t know what sort of schedule Paul kept, but it was probably too late to go buggin’ him now. He pawed his phone off the nightstand and set his alarm for ten minutes earlier than it had been, to leave room to go next door and retrieve it. Shit, he hoped Paul wasn’t a late sleeper. Then again, maybe wakin’ him up would be payback for gettin’ stuck under his shitty sink.

Daryl almost smiled, eyelids drooping as he drifted off to sleep, mind slow and easy.


	7. Chapter 7

Daryl woke up ten minutes before his alarm, cotton-mouthed but otherwise alright. He stared at the ceiling for a couple of minutes, soft golden light already starting to brighten up the room. Used t’be he wasn’t up until the sun was already fully in the sky, his brother clanging around in the other room of the trailer, or still snorin’ up a storm. For a moment or two he let his thoughts linger on Merle, wondering how he was holdin’ up in lock up. Probably causing trouble, though Daryl hoped not too much. He knew his brother’d be in there for a while, and he at least wanted to be able to go visit him, when all this shit was over. 

Christ, never thought he’d miss Merle. And yet here he was.

He told himself to get it the fuck together (and that voice sounded a lot like Merle) and got up, padding into the bathroom to take a piss and rinse the dead animal taste out of his mouth. He didn’t have a hangover though, so that was something. He got dressed methodically, a pair of dark, hole-free jeans and a blue button up. There wasn’t no uniform at work – thank god – but he did have to wear a lanyard with his ID on it, which he wasn’t entirely fond of; he kept it shoved in his pocket til he had to show the homeowner so they knew he was an actual employee.

After grabbing a granola bar from the kitchen and shoving it in his pocket, he grabbed his keys and his leather jacket and headed out the door. It was still early and he half expected to be knocking on Paul’s door for at least five minutes while the guy woke up. 

Instead, he knocked and thirty seconds later the door opened. 

For a moment, Daryl forgot how words worked. He might have even forgotten how breathing worked. Paul was standing there, hair in a bun atop his head, in a pair of low slung sweatpants and nothing else. No shirt. The guy was thin, but that didn’t mean nothin’ – he had defined muscles, half hidden by a trail of thick hair that led – christ. 

Daryl’s mouth snapped shut, gaze heading toward safer territory. Though he wasn’t sure how damn safe it was, given the amusement dancing in Paul’s eyes. “Forget something?” he asked, and Daryl remembered how to scowl at least. 

“Y’got my toolbox,” he said, and watched as Paul stepped aside, gestured for him to come in. He did. “Y’doing yoga or something?” he asked, trying for mocking. Seemed like something he’d do. He’d even bet the guy was a vegetarian – he couldn’t remember if he’d taken any of the meat at Aaron’s dinner. 

“Yeah, actually,” Paul replied with an easy grin. “You should try it sometimes, it’s a lot more intense than you’d think.” 

Daryl eyed him, the way sweat beaded on his brow, the way he looked ever so faintly damp. He grunted. Wouldn’t catch him dead doin’ none of that. Paul merely grinned wider.

“Your toolbox is by the door,” Paul said, giving a nod. “You eat already?” 

Daryl eyed him. He wasn’t about to sit down to breakfast with him, for several reasons, least of which being he didn’t think he’d be able to eat a bite without choking. Anyway, he had to get to work, and he said so. He ignored what might have been disappointment in Paul’s eyes, grabbed his toolbox and made some vague comment about seeing him later, which was echoed back to him in a far more enthusiastic manner. When the door shut behind him with a solid click, Daryl inhaled deeply, staring blankly at the door across the hall. 

Fuck. 

It’d been a long, long while since he’d ever laid eyes on a guy and felt like that. And sure, those few times he and Paul had interacted had made him feel antsy, nervous, but it was easy enough to ignore. Even the feel of his hand on him, when he’d been under the sink, Daryl could shove that aside. He knew he was gay, or at least far more interested in men than women.

It was something he’d always known, but never let himself admit aloud. In his neck of Georgia, it wasn’t the sort of thing you even let yourself think, especially not with a daddy like his. Course, he got the belt anyway, for reasons too varied and pointless for Daryl to ever pin down. And Merle wasn’t like that – he didn’t think – sure he ran his mouth a bunch, and wasn’t stingy with homophobic insults, but Daryl doubted he’d get his face beaten in for admittin’ it or nothin’. But it’d always seemed easier to just not. When he was younger he played along with Merle’s desire to ‘get him some pussy’ as he said, though the most he’d ever done was make out with a few drunk girls, then feigned bein’ too drunk to get it up himself. As far as Merle was concerned though, he’d spent the night fucking them and that was all that mattered.

Course, here, there was no Merle. Nobody to care. Nobody knew him. He’d be gone in six months. 

Then again, what’d it’d even matter anyway? Paul wasn’t ever gonna go for somebody like him and shit – it wasn’t like Daryl even liked him that much. He’d been nice to him, they’d shared a few beers, and yeah Paul looked good without a shirt on. Wasn’t a basis for nothin’. 

Daryl shoved any and all thoughts of shirtless Paul away and headed downstairs, readying himself for another day of avoiding small talk and fixing shit that anyone with a hammer and some common sense could do themselves. There weren’t too many people in the lobby – a woman with greying hair and a little girl who Daryl was gonna assume was her daughter, goin’ toward the elevator, the both of ‘em castin’ wary looks his way as he passed, and the Asian kid – Glenn? - from the other day, the one who’d had that baby, gettin’ his mail. He looked tired as fuck, but happy, and Daryl figured everythin’ was goin’ right with the kid. He was glad they weren’t on the same floor as far as he knew, he didn’t think he could stand six months of bein’ woken up by some howlin’ baby every night. 

Outside the air was cool and crisp, enough so that Daryl knew the ride into work would do a good job gettin’ rid of any lingerin’ thoughts up in his head. He tugged his jacket tighter around him as he headed into the parking lot, hoping that it wouldn’t get too cold by the time he was able to head back to Georgia. Riding the bike in below freezing weather would be a bitch. 

On his way toward his bike, he passed Rick getting into a car with a lanky teen – the son he’d talked about? – a woman with dreads in the passenger seat. He gave a nod in their general direction and received a wave back from Rick, curious glances from the other two. It’d probably be polite to head over and say hello – that’s what neighbors did, wasn’t it? but he didn’t want to be late to work (or more accurately, he just wanted to be out on the open road where he didn’t have to think for a few minutes). He strapped his toolbox onto the back of the bike, making sure it was snug so he didn’t end up losing tools along the way. He grabbed a helmet off the back and tugged it on, wasting no time in turning the key in the ignition and letting out a little sigh of relief as the roar of the engine filled the air. 

\------

It’d been a steady stream of things to fix today. Enough so that he barely had time to think between twisting bolts and hammering nails and ignoring small talk that accosted him from just about every customer. When he’d finally pulled back into the lot to return the truck and get his bike, he’d been more than ready to head on back to the apartment and have a smoke or two and decompress. He’d nearly forgotten about his morning, though it started to creep back in by the time he pulled into the parking lot and turned off the ignition. 

He grabbed his tool box and headed toward the door, fishing out his keycard to let him in. 

Tara and Denise were coming out of the elevator when he came in, holding hands. 

“Daryl!” Tara said, and she made a beeline for him, Denise following along behind her. 

“Hey,” he said with a nod, eyeing them uncertainly. Did one dinner make them friends? Everyone in this damn place was awfully friendly, he wouldn’t be surprised if they had cookouts in the summer or slumber parties or whatever. Which was nice, he guessed, if you liked those sorts of things. But Daryl’d never been part of any community. It was downright weird, people bein’ friendly all the time. 

“You coming to Aaron and Eric’s this week?” Tara asked, leaning a little against Denise. 

Daryl shrugged. “Maybe.” 

“You should,” Denise said. 

Tara nodded. “Yeah, if you come we’ll finally have even teams for charades.” She grinned at the look on Daryl’s face and laughed, shaking her head. “I’m kidding, don’t worry. We had to stop playing charades because Eric’s too good,” she said. Denise was watching her, obviously amused, and fond, and Daryl felt slightly uncomfortable, the way he always did around people who were obviously affectionate with each other. He’d never had none of that. 

“Right...well,” he started, not sure how to disengage from this situation. In the end, Denise saved him, giving Tara’s hand a little tug and saying that they had to be going. Daryl barely stuck around long enough to hear wherever it was they were going and slipped onto the elevator, jamming the door closed button before anyone could get on with him. 

The ride up was mercifully quiet but too short and he emerged onto the sixth floor hoping that it was empty. It was. He went straight toward his door, lingering for half a second, gaze fixed on Paul’s door like he expected him to pop out, having sensed Daryl’d arrived home. It remained shut and Daryl ruthlessly ignored the inexplicable curl of disappointment in his gut as he shoved his key in the lock and opened his door. 

From there he deposited his toolbox by the door and went into the kitchen. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, hungry but not especially feeling up to making anything quite yet, and fished his cigarettes out of his pocket with his free hand. He’d brought them with him, habit, but he hadn’t actually had time to smoke any over the course of the day. So, when he finally brought one to his mouth and lit it, he it was all he could do not to make a noise of relief. 

He opened the window, cigarette held between his lips, and stared down into the parking lot. For a few minutes he idly watched nothing happen, shifting so he could lean against the sill and flick ash through the opening in the window. He wasn’t actually sure if the apartment was smoking or not – hadn’t asked, but he also didn’t give a fuck either way. He took a long drag, feeling bits of him relax a little at a time. He idly tracked a car as it pulled into a spot – he couldn’t tell what it was from up here, one of those ones that it seemed like everyone and their mothers drove – and somehow he wasn’t surprised when the door opened and Paul got out. 

For a moment, he thought about putting his cigarette out, getting up and going to find something for dinner, but instead he just took another drag and watched as Paul reached over and grabbed something from the passenger seat, then shut the door. His hair was down, spilling over to his shoulders, and he was dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that probably had a band on it, though Daryl couldn’t tell from so high up. He tracked him all the way across the parking lot, until he disappeared. 

Ash fell from the tip of his cigarette onto the sill and he cursed, thumbing the warm soot away, though it just smeared against the wood. Daryl thought, at the very back of his mind, that he might have a problem. He continued to puff on the cigarette, staring at Paul’s car with a furrowed brow. Six months. He could do this. 

And then there was a knock on the door.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> smut ahoy. i don't know how the ratings really work so i'm changing it to e to be safe, mostly for future chapters though.

Daryl eyed the door for a long moment, though it wasn’t like he didn’t know who it was. Probably wanted him to come fix that damn leaky shower. He stubbed the cigarette out, leaving another smudge of ash and then tucked the butt into the sill. He’d get it later, or whatever. He waited another moment, just long enough for another knock before he sighed and headed toward the door, trying to shove any and all thoughts of shirtless Paul from this morning to the very back of his mind.

It only sorta worked. 

He jerked the door open to find Paul on the other side, a box of pizza in his hands and a smile on his face. 

“Y’ain’t gotta do that, y’already gave me beer.” 

“Yeah, I know, but that chair is really sturdy now, I felt like you deserved a little something extra,” he said, giving the pizza box a shake. “I’ve got more beer at my place if you wanna...” he said, tilting his head toward his door. 

Daryl narrowed his eyes at him, made a show of looking annoyed, but honestly his stomach was grumblin’ and the pizza smelled fuckin’ amazing. And he wouldn’t say no to beer. In the end he shrugged. “Yeah, alright,” he said. Paul grinned and Daryl followed him the handful of steps over to his place. 

The apartment looked the same as it had the last time Daryl had been there and the chair looked sturdy enough. He followed Paul over toward the kitchen table, standing awkwardly as Paul put the pizza down and went over to get some plates and the beers. This was officially the most he’d ever sat at a table to eat – hell, there wasn’t ever no room on the table back at the trailer to even put food. He sank into a seat as Paul gestured to it, biting back something that mighta been a smile as Paul took the previously broken chair and made a show of demonstrating how much it didn’t wobble.

“See?” he grinned, “I could do anything in this chair,” he continued. Daryl swallowed, reaching out for the pizza box to keep his mind from wandering toward places it really had no right bein’. Paul didn’t even seem to notice that his words coulda been taken any other way. 

“Better not be no rabbit shit on this,” Daryl said as he flipped the lid. 

“No shit of any kind, just cheese,” Paul assured him. “Figured I’d play it safe.” 

Daryl took a slice. It was hot and there was a shitload of cheese on it. He immediately shoved some in his mouth, taking out nearly the entire slice. Table manners hadn’t ever been his thing and he was starving. He plopped the remaining bit on his plate, cheeks bulging as he tried to chew the bite he’d taken. It was sloppy, but Daryl didn’t notice, focusing on filling the emptiness in his stomach. 

Occasionally, he’d snatch a glance at Paul, who seemed to be eating his pizza one bite-sized bite at a time. Daryl continued to plow his way through his slice, reaching for another before he’d finished chewing the last. He looked up again to find Paul watching him, brows raised, an amused smile on his face. 

“What?” he asked, after swallowing the last bit and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. 

“Glad to see you’re hungry, is all,” he replied, and Daryl narrowed his eyes. 

They ate in silence for a few more minutes, Daryl more focused on the pizza than starting up a conversation – though it wasn’t like he woulda even if there wasn’t food – and Paul apparently content to let him eat. 

Eventually, Daryl started getting full and he finished his last slice with a sigh, once more wiping his mouth with his sleeve, though the grease clung stubbornly. He frowned, bringing his fingers up to lick some off. A quiet noise from Paul brought his gaze up, eyes narrowed, though Paul merely gave him a little smile and took his plate. 

“So....I actually do have a leaky shower,” Paul said. Daryl took a pull of his beer and huffed. 

“Fine,” he said, getting up from the table. “Gotta get my toolbox.” 

It only took him a couple minutes to grab his box and return and in that time the table had been cleaned up and Paul’d put some music on. Wasn’t anything Daryl’d ever heard of – all gentle guitars and shit – but it wasn’t bad. Easy to tune out at least. 

Paul emerged from the hallway, pausing when he saw Daryl. “This is the last thing, I promise,” he told Daryl, waiting for him to follow before heading into the bathroom. Daryl snorted. He was willin’ to bet it would not be the last thing Paul called him over for, but he supposed if he got pizza and a beer out of it, he didn’t mind so much at all. 

The bathroom was small, just enough room for a stand up shower, toilet and sink. As soon as he entered he could hear the drip, drip, drip from the showerhead. “Weren’t kiddin’,” he said, setting his toolbox down and rummaging around for a wrench. Paul opened the shower door for him and Daryl straightened up, only to find that there wasn’t a whole lotta space left in the room with the two of ‘em both in there. Daryl sucked in a breath as he stood and found himself face to face with Paul, close enough to feel the heat of him. 

And Paul was just...just fuckin’ starin’ at him, with his big stupid eyes and... Daryl swallowed, tongue snaking out to flick against his lower lip, feeling a little like the air had gotten a bit too thick to breathe. His gaze flicked down, stalled on Paul’s lips. His heart knocked abruptly against his rib cage, a fluttering feeling in his gut. He could just – fuck – he could just lean forward, just a bit, and – Paul beat him to it, leaning forward until their lips touched. 

Daryl inhaled deeply through his nose, frozen, grip white-knuckled on the wrench in his hand. Paul’s mouth was warm, gentle, patient as Daryl tried to make himself respond. He’d been kissed before, sure, but he’d always been drunk or on his way there and he’d never liked it much. Too much spit, all sloppy and wet and – this was – fuck, this was anything but. 

“Sorry I-“ Paul started, pulling away after Daryl failed to do anything more than twitch in shock. 

Something lurched in Daryl’s chest. He didn’t know what it was about Paul, why he liked him so much, why he wasn’t as annoyin’ as he should have been, but he liked him and already regret was settling in his gut.

But – shit, this wasn’t him. This was Daryl Drake. He could do whatever the fuck he wanted and it wouldn’t matter, he’d be gone in six months. That thought didn’t calm the pounding of his heart, but it did give him the courage to lurch forward and press his lips against Paul’s, a little too hard, teeth clacking – but then Paul raised a hand to tilt his jaw and – there, fuck, kissing wasn’t so damn bad after all. 

Daryl sucked in a ragged breath through his nose, returning the kiss, feeling like a damn idiot, his movements hesitant and unsure. He’d only had a few sips of beer; he was way too damn sober for this. 

Paul didn’t seem to care. 

When his back hit the bathroom wall he finally pulled free, breath coming unevenly, eyes wide, lips swollen. Paul stared back at him, in pretty much the same state, though he didn’t look quite as much as if a stiff breeze might knock him on his ass. Daryl figured that’s how he looked. 

He cleared his throat. 

“So uh....bout that showerhead...” he said, gaze flicking over Paul’s shoulder toward the steadily dripping shower. Wasn’t that he didn’t wanna go no further – but Daryl Drake or no, he had no fucking clue what he was doing. Paul blinked, then took a step back.

“Right, yeah, um,” Daryl watched his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed and wanted to kick himself for ending that kiss. “Should be an easy fix, I hope,” he said, sliding his way past Daryl to let him through. Their chests brushed, the heat of Paul’s body bleeding into his for a split second. Daryl resisted the urge to close his eyes and give himself a damn moment, heat rising in his cheeks. 

“Got it,” he said, and set to work fixing the damn thing. 

\--------

The rest of the night went on without incident. Daryl fixed the showerhead, drank the rest of his beer on the sofa, and neither of them said a word about the kiss. Daryl couldn’t stop himself from looking at Paul’s lips, but he didn’t do nothing about it, and so that was that. They talked about inane shit, like Daryl’s job (he told him about all the little old ladies that wanted to feel him up – and there mighta been an awkward moment, when Paul’s gaze got stuck on his biceps before they both cleared their throats and moved on). 

Daryl didn’t let the conversation go on for much longer, especially when Paul started asking about where he’d moved from. He made some excuse about how it was getting late and collected his toolbox. 

Paul slipped in front of the door before he could get out and Daryl eyed him, his pulse rocketing again. “Thanks for fixing my shower,” Paul said, and Daryl grunted. Just took a coupla twists with the damn wrench, wasn’t like it’d been no big job or nothing. Paul stared at him for a moment, the silence stretching, and Daryl was just about to say something to break it when the other man leaned forward to press a soft, brief kiss to his lips. He pulled back, cheeks looking a bit pink, with a tiny smile on his face. 

“We should do it again,” Paul said, the smile widening. “I mean, minus the showerhead but – dinner, or something,” he said. Daryl felt like he’d swallowed a rock. The kiss had been one thing (well, technically two if he counted the one Paul had just planted on him) but dinner – an intentional dinner? That was another thing. 

Still. Ain’t no one ever invited him to a dinner – in that way – before. Daryl stared at him for a moment, teeth worrying his lower lip. He was Daryl Drake, he reminded himself. Didn’t matter because at the end of six months he’d be on his bike roaring away from here. 

“Yeah, sure,” he said, quick, like ripping off a band aid. Paul smiled again.  
\-------

Daryl closed the door to his apartment and let out a deep breath, staring into the distance for a moment or two. Had that really just fucking happened? He licked his lower lip, and swore he could till taste pizza sauce. 

So. 

He had a date. 

A date with Paul. 

On Thursday. 

An actual fucking date. Granted, they weren’t going nowhere, but Paul had something about ordering Italian and a movie or some shit, which – honestly, Daryl wasn’t exactly looking forward to, he’d never seen no movies that weren’t on basic cable and didn’t even know what was out, but he...wasn’t entirely not looking forward to spending another evening with Paul. 

He toed off his boots, set the toolbox down and padded into the apartment, feeling a bit like he’d been hit over the head with something blunt. He didn’t know if this was a good idea, but he couldn’t say he exactly cared – this was the one fucking time in his life that he was alone. No Will, no Merle, nobody but his own damn self. A sad fucking fact since he was the wrong side of forty but it was...fuck, it was exciting in a way. 

He could kiss the fuck outta Paul and wouldn’t have to worry about Merle sayin’ nothing, or havin’ to look over his shoulder. Hell, he could think about kissing Paul and not feel like someone was gonna know somehow. 

That thought buzzed about his mind as he changed for bed, set his alarm for early enough to get to work on time and got into bed. 

A fucking date. Daryl snorted to himself, settling in under the covers, and fought the smile that kept trying to worm across his face. 

\-----

The alarm blaring from his phone wasn’t quite as annoying as usual, even though it took a few minutes for Daryl to fight his way from the fog of sleep and emerge into a sitting position. He ran a hand over his face and got up, padded into the bathroom to take a piss and decided he might as well take a shower today. He turned it on, stripped off his clothes and waited for it to warm up, mind pleasantly blank for once. 

He settled under the spray, hissing a quiet breath as the hot water warmed him up and drenched his hair. He’d never taken too long in showers and he set to it with brisk efficiency, shampooing his hair with two-in-one and rinsing it out as quick as he could. He soaped up, wash cloth scratchy against his skin, scrubbing until his skin turned red. 

Daryl watched the rest of the suds go down the drain, wet hair sticking to his face as he let the water fall down on him. Just as he was about to get out he realized that he didn’t have to – this wasn’t a quick three-minute shower in his dinky ass trailer – hell, this was a luxury. No weak ass water pressure, no need to worry about no water bill – he could stay under the damn spray all day (well, nah he imagined he’d get bored of it eventually, but he couldn’t see himself gettin’ tired of it in the next ten minutes at least). He closed his eyes, the tension in his muscles slowly relenting as the hot water poured over his back.

His thoughts started to wander. Innocent places at first, like what he wanted to do to the bike when he finally got back to Georgia, to how Merle was doing, then to if he was gonna end up going to Aaron ‘n Eric’s this week. Probably. Wasn’t no reason not to. Maybe Paul – and all his thoughts came to a screeching halt. Paul. Paul’d kissed him. No – he’d kissed Paul. Now all he could think about was the warmth of Paul’s lips against his, the scratch of that damn beard. 

Something fizzled in his gut, a warmth pooling there – something he hadn’t felt in a long ass time. He swallowed, mind wandering a little further, bringing up helpful images of a sweaty Paul answering the door in the middle of yoga, with his hair in a bun and a smirk on his face. 

Shit. 

He grunted, a spark of surprise snaking through him as his cock gave a twitch. He ignored it, trying to steer his thoughts back toward safer grounds but they kept going back toward the kiss, and then they started embellishing. He let out a breath through his nose, head bowing as he remembered Paul’s mouth on his, imagined the kiss deepening, imagined Paul’s hand slipping down his chest and wrapping around him. 

He groaned, sliding his palm around his cock tentatively. Wasn’t like anyone would know. Shit, plenty of guys did it – and it wasn’t like he’d never done it before. Though usually his thoughts were unfocused, hazy images of women he was supposed to find attractive, or faceless men if he was feelin’ particularly desperate. This though, fuck this was high def and all focused on Paul. 

He bit down on his lower lip, giving himself a stroke, a whimper stalling in his throat at the sensation. He leaned against the shower wall, water beating down on him indiscriminately as he braced himself, adjusting his grip. His cock filled, growing firmer beneath his hand, pleasure sparkling through his gut as he squeezed, hips jumping a little. 

Fuck. 

He thought about Paul backing him against that bathroom wall, and how it’d felt to have that heat so close to him. He gave his cock a few strokes, biting his lip, his mind tentatively filling in a scene. Paul, body pressed against his, jerking his hips against his fully clothed. Like he couldn’t even wait for it, couldn’t even pause long enough to undo the damn zip on his jeans. Heat flooded through his veins, his eyes slamming shut, images flooding his mind.

Paul pressing biting kisses against his neck, sliding his hand under Daryl’s boxers – and fuck he didn’t know where the fuck he was in this goddamn fantasy – and wrapping around him once more. Paul, jerking him slow and steady, twisting over the head in a way that made Daryl whine. He’d be a little shit about it, Daryl thought, teasing, making Daryl curse, make him wanna beg. He jerked himself a little faster, the warmth in his gut expanding, pressure building. The images whirled around his head as Daryl leaned into his own touch, little noises trapped behind his teeth as he listened to the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. He just barely imagined Paul sliding to his knees before he was coming, a grunt punched out of his gut as his spunk splattered against the shower wall, leaving him wrung out and shaky, out of breath. 

He took a moment to come down, light-headed and satisfied, yet somehow not quite, before he straightened up. Now he had to go to work. He took a step, and in the next moment he was flailing, feet sliding out from under him. He reached desperately for something to keep him upright, hit the shower caddy, and went down in a tumble of shampoo bottles and soap. 

He landed hard on his ass, only to immediately have a bottle of shampoo ream him in the face. Pain radiated out from his eye and he groaned, taking a moment to just kind of lie there thinking what the fuck. 

The water pelting him started to get cold after a few moments though and he heaved another groan, clutching at the sides of the tub to haul himself to his feet. Fuck. The high from his orgasm had been obliterated by the fall and now he was just sore and cranky. He shut the water off, grabbing a towel as he stepped out onto the matt and tried not to shiver. 

He dried himself off with rough strokes, then tossed the towel to the side. He’d pick it up later. He’d probably used up more time than he’d really had tossing off in the shower, which meant he was gonna be late for work if he didn’t get his ass into gear. Not that it mattered. What the fuck were they gonna do? Fire him? 

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he passed, a bright splotch of rapidly darkening color spreading beneath his eye. 

Damnit, he was gonna have one hell of a shiner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so, this was supposed to be the Summer of Updates. obviously it has not been. i ended up going on a roadtrip to visit family a little earlier than i planned because my mom had a minor heart attack (she's fine!). then i participated in the desus sadfic challenge. and then i came home, got some pet rats and....immediately had one get loose. i spent eleven hours on my bathroom floor trying to catch him. but he's been caught! and so here's this chapter. i'll try to get talking about love updated asap for you guys, sorry for the wait.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayyyy if i'm ever this late again someone at least kick me. i don't really have any excuse other than writing is hard and not pre-planning ur fic is a dumb idea.

Saturdays were half-shifts, though Daryl couldn’t find it in himself to be grateful. That left him with half the day alone with his thoughts, which he sure as shit didn’t need after this morning. A few of his customers had eyed him warily when they clocked the slowly worsening bruise over his eye, like they thought he’d come straight from a bar fight or something. 

It didn’t matter to him, those were the looks he was used to, though they were usually cos of Merle. 

He took the long way back on his bike, pushing it to the limit so his thoughts were lost beneath the roar of the engine. Eventually, though, he still ended up back in the apartment complex parking lot, the bike shuddering as he pulled into the parking spot and let it idle for a few moments, delaying the inevitable. 

Like Paul would take one look at him and immediately know what he’d been doing. 

After a minute or two, he turned it off, grabbed his toolbox and headed toward the doors, head down to avoid any unnecessary interactions. He should have stopped and gotten some sunglasses, but it was too late now. Anyway, he couldn’t wear ‘em inside unless he wanted people asking more questions than would be elicited by the damn shiner. 

At first, he thought the lobby was empty, but he didn’t even have time to breathe a sigh of relief before someone was calling his name. He frowned, glancing over to see who it was, just quickly enough to get a look without putting his face in view. 

Aaron and Eric were coming through the front doors, hand in hand, grins on their faces and cheeks flushed. 

“Hey, Daryl!” Eric called, and Daryl resisted the urge to duck into the stairwell and book it up six flights just to avoid them. 

“Hey,” he grunted back as they came up beside him near the elevators, reaching out to jab the button to call the elevator down. He looked over at them, and while he could see them both noticing the forming bruise, they didn’t say shit. He didn’t know whether to be relieved, or paranoid about how they’d think it happened. 

After a beat or two of silence, and fleeting look shared between the two other men, Aaron finally spoke, lifting the canvas bag in his free hand slightly. “We just got back from the farmer’s market. It’s down the road a couple blocks,” he said. “Eric and I go every weekend just for the apples,” he said, sharing a smile with Eric. “You should come next time, if you want,” he offered. 

Daryl eyed them, swallowing back an immediate refusal. He’d never been to no damn farmer’s market before, and he didn’t really give a shit about no apples or anything (fruit didn’t really make it into his kitchen too often) but he could recognize a nice gesture when he saw one. He’d never lived anywhere before where people tried so hard to make him feel included. 

It made him feel odd. 

He cleared his throat. “Maybe,” he said, and that seemed to be as good as a yes to the two of them. 

They continued talkin’ about apples ‘n peaches and stuff as they elevator arrived and Daryl listened, managing not to look completely like he had no interest in what they were sayin’. 

“See you Wednesday?” Eric asked, as the door opened to their floor. Daryl gave a jerk of his head – he figured he might as well show up. It wasn’t like he had nothin’ else to do and it’d been...nice. 

He ignored the fact that there was every chance Paul would also be there. 

The doors closed again behind them and Daryl let out a breath, hopin’ the hallway on the sixth floor was clear. 

He stepped out onto his floor, holding back a sigh of relief when it appeared empty. The relief was painfully short-lived, because as soon as he made it a few steps, Officer Grimes stepped outta his apartment and locked eyes with him.

Daryl nearly flinched – the man had a stare that was damn intense, even more so when he noticed Daryl’s bruised eye and his mouth went all hard. Damn. Rick was at his side in a moment, looking every bit the concerned neighbor, but there was something that was all officer of the law in the steeliness of his gaze. 

“You alright?”

Daryl could feel himself go red to the tips of his ears. “Yeah, m’fine, just fell,” he managed looking anywhere but at Rick.

He could feel his suspicious gaze on him, eyeing him like his teachers used to when he'd show up to school covered in bruises and give ‘em some lame ass excuse.

“You sure?” Rick pressed, and Daryl hoped his ears weren’t as red as they felt. 

“Yeah, ‘m sure,” he said, annoyance bleeding into his tone. “Just fell is all, swear,” he said, hating how he sounded like some kid makin’ excuses. He guessed it was a bit suspicious, some guy in witness protection showin’ up with a bruised face. Might make someone wonder if he wasn’t as protected as he shoulda been. Daryl didn’t know how to reassure him without tellin’ him the truth, and there wasn’t no way in hell he was tellin’ Rick he’d got this shiner jerkin’ off in the shower. 

He’d rather die right there on the spot. 

Rick eyed him for a few long moments while Daryl tried not to squirm on the spot, before the man nodded once. “Alright,” he said, clapping a hand to Daryl’s arm, like they were friends. “Take care of yourself,” he added. “Call if you need to.” That last part came out more like an order than a friendly suggestion and Daryl gave a sharp nod. 

Daryl made it the rest of the way to his apartment unscathed though he lingered by his door for half a second, as if he expected Paul to pop his head out the door. He didn’t and Daryl swallowed back a completely unnecessary burst of disappointment. 

He put his toolbox by the door and kicked off his boots. He wasn’t gonna leave the apartment the rest of the day, he thought. Instead, he went to the fridge and grabbed a bag of frozen mixed vegetables (he couldn’t remember if he’d gotten them or if they’d been part of the ‘set up’), then plopped himself down on the couch and put it over his eye. Maybe he could get rid of the damn shiner before he saw Paul again. 

He didn’t have to work tomorrow, it was completely feasible. Right? He grabbed the remote from beside him and turned on the tv, vaguely watching whatever dumbass gameshow was on – it was just something to watch and he didn’t pay it much attention. 

Eventually, the bag of vegetables melted enough to become uncomfortable and he traded it out for some ice cubes wrapped in a towel. A passing glance in the bathroom mirror told him that it wasn’t doin’ jack shit – cept makin’ his skin an angry red color from the cold. 

The rest of the day inched by – Daryl was bored out of his damn mind, but eventually it was late enough that he could go to bed without feelin’ like some old granny. There was no alarm to set and he settled against his pillow, thoughts slowly drifting toward that morning. He turned onto his side, like he could avoid the thoughts with enough shifting, but they continued to trickle in. He thought about Paul, without his shirt on. 

Thought about how Paul’s hand settling against his hip when he was under the sink.

No amount of tossing and turning seemed to be able to save him and in the end, it was only forcing himself to think of fresh roadkill in vivid detail that saved him from a hard on. A victory, but a hollow one, because he spent the whole night dreaming of animal guts splashed against the pavement.  
\---

Daryl woke up with a vague ache in his head and the sun filtering weakly through the blinds he’d forgotten to close the night before. 

He got up, stumbling through his morning routine and hauled open the window for a cigarette. It was chilly, the cold wrapping around him with a bitterness that had no business bein’ around this early in fall but it helped wake him up. The parking lot was quiet – he hadn’t checked the time but it felt early enough that people were either asleep or at church. 

He pulled his pack out, only to find he only had one left and cursed under his breath, lighting up and frowning down at his motorcycle. He’d have to go out today after all, get a carton or two – it probably wasn’t a habit he should be keeping, specially if this place was a chance to be someone different from who he used to be.

Nah. 

He had enough to deal with – wasn’t gonna deal with everything without nicotine in his system. 

He went back to the bedroom to pull on a pair of jeans – he’d left them lying crumpled on the floor, but there wasn’t nobody here t’complain about his mess. Not...that Merle ever really did, in fact, he’d always left more of a mess round the place than Daryl ever did. He might pitch a fit bout Daryl leaving his crossbow out when he stumbled over it in the middle of the night, drunk off his ass, and busted his knee on the rickety coffee table. 

The thought made him miss Merle. 

He took a long drag from the cigarette and went back to the window to tap it out, flicking the butt out and watching it drift on down to the ground. He shut the window and headed toward the door, shoving his feet into his boots and grabbing his wallet from the table near the door. 

He opened it and nearly swallowed his tongue. 

Paul was coming down the hallway, covered in a sheen of sweat and wearing some stupidly tight running clothes, hair up in a damn bun. Roadkill flickered desperately through his mind and he half thought about slamming the door. 

God, he was fuckin’ pathetic. 

But Paul had already seen him and was taking his earbuds out, a grin on his face that faltered when he got closer. 

“Oh shit,” he said, “What happened to your eye?” 

Daryl stood in his doorway, feeling his face go up in flames. “Jus’....tripped,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’,” he added, jerkin’ a little when Paul leaned forward, tryin’ to get a better look. 

“Looks worse than it is,” Daryl said, when Paul seemed to be waiting for something else. 

“I’ve got some Arnica if you need it,” he said, stuffing his earbuds into his pocket without looking. 

Daryl shook his head. “Nah, ‘m fine. Really. Had worse,” he said, and it was true. He couldn’t really count the number of black eyes he’d had over the course of his life, though they usually weren’t his fault. Or not totally his fault, anyway. 

“Alright,” Paul said. His expression changed, the concern bleeding away to a smile. “Were you going anywhere?” he asked. “I was going to make some post-run pancakes. I always make too much if you wanted some?” 

“Was gonna go get cigarettes,” he said. 

Paul looked unimpressed. 

“I make the pancakes from a box, but I promise you they’re better than cigarettes.” 

Daryl eyed him. A pancake wasn’t gonna give him no nicotine fix. But Paul was starin’ at him, lookin’ hopeful, and Daryl felt his resolve starting to crumble. Six months, he reminded himself. He could eat some damn pancakes with Paul. The guy wasn’t no mind reader, he wasn’t gonna be able to tell how Daryl’d gotten the shiner the longer he was in his presence. 

Daryl huffed. “Doubt it, but fine,” he said. 

Paul grinned. 

“Guess we’ll see.” 

With that, he turned and opened the door to his apartment, waiting for Daryl to come through before closing the door behind him. 

“I’m going to go change really quick,” Paul said, “The pancake mix is in the cupboard over there if you want to get it out?” he said, giving him a crooked smile before disappearing down the hall, leaving Daryl standing alone in the middle of the kitchen. 

He huffed, wondering how he’d gotten roped into actually helping, and went over to the cupboard to get the mix out. He was pretty sure he ain’t never had nobody made pancakes for him before (although he guessed technically they weren’t for him so much as they were just extras that Paul was already gonna make). Maybe his ma before she’d burnt up, but there were no memories of it. He set the box on the counter and eyed the kitchen – it looked the same as the last time he’d been in here, though there were a couple dirty dishes in the sink. 

Daryl stuck his hands in his pockets, trying not to think about how sweaty Paul had been. Or how his hair looked in a bun. Shit, he just tried not to think at all, wondering when the fuck he’d gotten this pathetic. Could only imagine what Merle would say if he were here. Actually, nah, he didn’t wanna imagine that. 

Finally, Paul emerged again, in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, sans running shoes. He looked a lot less sweaty, so he must have put some water on his face, though his hair was still up in a bun. Daryl swallowed. “Got the mix,” he said, unnecessarily, because Paul was already heading toward the counter. 

“Thanks,” Paul said, bending down to rummage around a cupboard. Daryl averted his eyes. He emerged with a mixing bowl. “Do you like shapes for yours?” he asked. Daryl stared at him blankly. “I can almost get the Mickey Mouse ears, and once I did a dinosaur by accident,” he continued. 

“Uh,” Daryl said. He didn’t really give a shit what his pancake looked like. 

Paul smiled at him, looking amused at his confusion. “I’ll just surprise you then,” he said, dumping some of the mix into the bowl and adding water, only half-paying attention it seemed. “Can you turn on the stove for me?” 

Daryl did as he was asked, grabbing for a pan hanging above the stove. He could at least manage that much – he might not have ever made pancakes before, but he’d fried up an egg or two when there wasn’t nothing else to eat. 

Paul finished mixing up the batter and appeared at his side, shoulder brushing against his easily. Daryl blinked, tried not to react. “Thanks,” he said, and Daryl took a slight step back, leaning against the counter, close enough to watch Paul work. He felt weird, but he didn’t really want to go sit at the kitchen table and wait to be served or nothin’ like that. 

“You should be more careful,” Paul said, not looking up from the batter he’d poured into the pan. 

“Huh?” Daryl asked, straightening up a little, wondering if he’d been leaning against something he shouldn’t. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone trip and get a black eye like yours,” he said, finally looking up, the curve to his mouth teasing. Daryl flushed and snorted dismissively. 

“Bad luck, ‘s all,” he said, turning his gaze from Paul’s teasing smile (and the way his eyes crinkled when he did so) watching the batter start to bubble up. 

“You should get a good luck charm. Like a rabbit’s foot or something,” Paul suggested, testing the edges of the pancake with a spatula to see if it was ready to flip. 

“Had plenty of rabbit’s feet,” Daryl admitted. “Never felt especially lucky,” he frowned. “Guess it was cos they were still attached to the rabbit.”  
He could feel Paul’s gaze on him, brow raised. 

Oh. Right. Did Daryl Drake hunt? They’d never been too clear on what type of things were okay to carry over from his ‘previous life’ or whatever. Plenty of people hunted, right? Even handymen who went to college. “Used t’hunt, a bit,” he explained. 

“Yeah?” Paul asked, curiously, flipping the pancake over. “For sport or food?” 

Daryl chewed at his lower lip, wonder if he should answer honestly. It wasn’t like Paul would be able to piece together who he really was if he gave him some true information and – and even if he did, what would it matter? Not that Daryl was gonna tell him who he really was – but he had a feeling Paul wouldn’t put him in danger with that information.

Daryl wasn’t really sure why he was so confident in that, considerin’ he barely knew Paul. 

“Food, mostly,” he said, with a shrug. “Was a while ago, anyway,” he said. And it was, or at least it felt like it. He’d been hunting for extra food right up until Merle got put away, but as far as he was concerned it’d been a damn lifetime ago. 

“I’ve never been hunting,” Paul said, sliding the pancake onto a plate and pouring more batter into the pan. “I’m not sure I could kill Bambi’s mom, or Thumper come to think of it,” he said, but he didn’t really sound that judgmental. 

“Ain’t for some people,” Daryl said with a shrug. 

“Guess not,” Paul said. 

They were quiet for a few moments – it wasn’t an awkward silence, not really, and Daryl watched as Paul made another pancake, this one lookin’ like some lopsided mouse. After that, Paul made a few more, three at a time once the pan warmed up, and Daryl continued to watch, feeling oddly.... content. 

Wasn’t a feeling he was used to. 

When there was a sizeable stack on the plate, Paul finally turned off the stove and turned to head toward the table, shoulder brushing against Daryl’s once more. “Do you like syrup on yours?” he asked, and Daryl gave a vague affirmative grunt. The kitchen was set up just like his, so he had no trouble finding the utensils and getting them both a knife and fork as Paul put the pancakes on the table and got the butter and syrup, then a carton of orange juice as well. 

It was weird, bein’ in the kitchen with someone else. He’d never really ate with nobody – less he counted inhaling some deer jerky sittin’ on the sofa with Merle – or Merle hollerin’ at him when he was in the kitchen t’bring him a beer or something. 

He liked it. More than he would have thought. 

Daryl grabbed some plates too and set them on the table, puttin’ some silverware next to the plates before takin’ his seat on one side of the table, as Paul slid into the other. Paul smiled at him across the table, wiping a string of hair that had escaped the hair tie from his face. “Dig in,” he said, looking ridiculously pleased to have Daryl sitting across the table from him. 

Daryl felt something warm ignite in his gut and spread through him, the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth as he grabbed a small stack of deformed pancakes off the pile and brought them to his plate.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just gonna post this and pretend it hasn't been this long :)))

They worked their way through the stack of pancakes in companionable silence – broken only when Daryl scoffed at Paul for drowning his pancakes in an entire lake of syrup – why even bother making the pancakes if he was just gonna eat a forkful of syrup anyway? By the time both their plates were clear, Daryl was full and oddly at ease, the urge for a cigarette barely tickling the back of his mind. 

He insisted that Paul let him wash up – weren’t too many dishes and Daryl didn’t mind it, really. He filled the sink with hot water, topped off with more bubbles than was strictly necessary, and tried to ignore the fact that Paul had jumped right up on the counter next to the sink and was sitting there, watching him, his heels gently thumping against the cabinet. 

He was close enough that Daryl could lean against him if he wanted to. And he did want to – but he didn’t do it, instead he focused on the sting of the scalding water as he submerged the mixing bowl and soaped it up. Paul took the dishes as he finished, drying them with a dish towel before setting them on a rack, seeming perfectly at ease with this arrangement, like they’d been doin’ it every day for a year. 

There wasn’t much to wash up though and Paul barely managed to get through a story about a deer getting into the community garden (yeah, the apartment complex apparently had one of ‘em, Daryl’d never been much for gardening but he could see how it’d be useful) before he was done. 

He wiped his hands off on his pants, ignoring the dish towel Paul offered him. 

“You still need a cigarette?” Paul asked, finally setting the towel down when it became apparent Daryl wasn’t going to use it. “Or can you stick around? I’ve got some time before I have to leave, we can watch TV or something.” 

Daryl chewed his lip under Paul’s expectant gaze, ignoring the vague sort of disappointment in his gut. They’d kissed once (twice, he guessed, if you counted the return kiss) and there was no reason to go around expecting anything. Still. They were alone together again, and all Paul wanted to do was watch TV? 

He’d still take it though. For some reason, one he wasn’t too sure he wanted to examine too closely, he wanted to spend time with Paul. And if that meant sitting two feet apart on the sofa watching whatever shit Paul put on, then so be it. 

Five minutes later, he was almost regretting his decision to agree to stay for a bit. Paul had put on the sports channel. Daryl’d never gotten into sports enough to have a favorite team or anything, though he’d spent enough time in bars to be at least aware of them. But he didn’t know how he was supposed to focus on basketball or tennis, or whatever the fuck was playing when Paul was sitting right next to him, hair still up in a bun. All Daryl wanted to do was kiss him. 

The next time he snuck a glance at him, he was startled to see Paul looking back at him. His head ducked, but when he looked again Paul was grinning, and then the grin softened, and Daryl could practically read the unspoken words in his eyes. _Wanna make out?_

Okay, maybe that wasn’t exactly it, but he did see Paul’s gaze drop to his lips and it was like he was powerless to stop it, his hand sinking into the sofa between them as he leaned over. His heart was in his throat – like there was a chance Paul was going to sit back and laugh at him, ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing.

But Paul didn’t. Paul leaned forward, and he put a hand on Daryl’s jaw, and he _kissed_ him and Daryl nearly embarrassed himself with a helpless noise that he managed to swallow just in time. 

For a brief moment it was – well it wasn’t perfect, Daryl was sure his lips were clumsy, and he wasn’t really sure what to do with his hands, but it felt _good_. And then Paul let out a laugh against his lips and Daryl pulled back like he’d been burnt. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Paul murmured, shaking his head. “Just – I’ve been waiting five minutes for you to figure out I didn’t actually want to watch TV.” 

Daryl narrowed his eyes, not sure what to say to that. In the end, he didn’t say anything because Paul started kissing him again. 

At first it was soft, tentative, sweet, Daryl unsure but not willing to let that stop him. Paul’s hand on his jawline, guiding him, helped, and before long he was sinking into the rhythm of it. 

He shoved away all the distracting thoughts at the back of his mind like: he was starting to get a crick in his neck, he didn’t know how to do this, and Paul wouldn’t like him if he knew he was some redneck trash from Georgia, only here because he’d be killed if he wasn’t. 

Instead, he focused on the tickle of Paul’s beard against his jaw, on the heady feeling in his chest, the quick dart of Paul’s tongue into his mouth that made Daryl’s stomach swoop like there was an entire herd of butterflies inside. 

They kissed until he was sure he was gonna pass out from lack of air, and when he pulled back he almost had to look away. Paul’s mouth was red and swollen, a few strands of hair pulled loose from the bun (had he done that? he didn’t remember putting a hand up in his hair, but well, he’d been too distracted by what his mouth was doin’ to pay the rest of him any mind), an intense look in those sea green eyes. 

Daryl swallowed. 

Was this – did they go further? He didn’t know how this worked. What Paul wanted. For Daryl, it had to be – it had to be something casual. Never mind that he’d never done _anything_ let alone anything casual, but he knew he wouldn’t be here in six months. 

He’d be back home, in his trailer, and there wasn’t no way in hell Paul was fitting in the world he came from. He definitely ignored whatever part of him had even brought up the _idea_ of Paul being exposed to his world – like it was something that could have actually happened. It was a damn fantasy and he couldn’t think about it. 

In the end, it didn’t even matter, because Paul’s phone buzzed, and he broke away to look at it, swearing softly under his breath. 

“Sorry, Daryl,” he said, sounding a little breathless still. “I teach a martial arts class and it starts in twenty minutes.” 

Daryl grunted, feeling self-consciousness start to creep in. Wasn’t like he’d thought Paul was gonna hang out with him for the rest of the afternoon or nothing. “’s alright, I got shit to do too.” 

Paul eyed him for a moment, like there was more he wanted to say, before he just smiled. “I’ll text you later? If you want to come over for a beer or something,” he said, sounding almost hopeful. 

He probably shouldn’t. All of this was stupid. Pointless. 

And yet. 

“Alright,” he said. 

He let himself out as Paul went to change, trying to decide if he should go down to the store for cigarettes after all or if that craving had settled. 

Five minutes after he closed the door, there was a knock.

Daryl frowned, wondering if it was Rick, or Aaron, or maybe someone else. Someone who’d found out he was here. He didn’t like the spike of anxiety that gripped him. He wasn’t afraid – he could take care of himself, but with Paul and everything, he’d almost forgotten he had to be alert.

And that was dumb. 

He made sure he could see his hunting knife, hanging up on the coat hook next to the door, in the pocket of one of those dumbass cardigans they’d given him to wear (he hadn’t, yet) before he looked through the peep hole and... Paul? Paul in his martial arts getup. 

He opened the door and barely got out a breath before Paul was speaking. 

“Hey, sorry. So. My car won’t start. And I know you said you had ‘shit’ to do, but I really, really need to get to this class and I will give you an entire twenty-four pack of beer, but can I have a ride?” 

Daryl blinked, taking just a moment to process what Paul had said, cos he’d been talking at a goddamn mile a minute. And then in the next moment he was shrugging. “Yeah, sure.” he said, ignoring the feeling in his gut when he realized he’d have to take Paul on his bike. 

“Really?” he asked, but before Daryl could say anything again Paul was goin’ on. “Awesome, thanks Daryl, really,” he said, and Daryl just shrugged because it wasn’t no big deal. 

He shoved his feet into some boots, grabbed his key and the extra helmet he’d gotten with the bike which until now he hadn’t thought he was ever gonna use, and they were on their way. 

It’d been a while since he’d had a passenger on any bike – his brother thought the back was the bitch seat and he’d never really had nobody else to go nowhere with, so the feeling of Paul’s arms sliding low around his waist was unexpected. Not enough for him to flinch, but enough for him to notice it, for his mind to get stuck on it and he told himself to cool the fuck out. He didn’t need to embarrass himself over no motorcycle ride (and he definitely wasn’t gonna think about the last time his mind had gone thinking thoughts it had no business thinking – he couldn’t afford another shiner). No reason to get excited. 

He shifted, kicking up the stand and revving the motor before he walked the bike back out of his parking spot. It was odd, adjusting to the weight of another person on the bike, but it didn’t take long to get used to it. When he put the bike in motion, just a cool ten miles per hour out of the lot, he could feel Paul press closer against him, his stomach pressed against his back, a long line of heat. Shit. Daryl forced the bike a little faster, as if he could outrun the sensation, but all that did was make Paul cling a little tighter. Occasionally, Paul would lean a little bit, throwing out an arm to show him where to turn, but then it returned, tighter than before. 

It felt like a lifetime, but eventually they arrived at the studio. Paul practically hopped off the bike before he’d even parked it, and Daryl took his helmet, pulling his own off afterwards. He expected Paul to dash on in, but instead Paul merely looked at him, a considering look on his face. 

“You can come in if you don’t have anything to do...” Paul suggested, looking over at him with something that might have been hope in his eyes. Like it mattered if Daryl came or not. 

“’m not really the martial arts type,” Daryl said, sounding dubious, even as he cut the engine. The only type of fightin’ he’d ever done was with his fists and it had suited him just fine – he didn’t need no fancy moves or roundhouse kicks to win. 

Paul laughed. “There’s no ‘martial arts type’,” he grinned. “Honestly, you’d be surprised at some of the people who show up. And it’s easier if you’re going to drive me home.” 

Daryl took a moment – wasn’t like there was much to do around here anyway, unless he wanted to go grocery shopping or poke his head into a pet store, so he pocketed his keys as he got off the bike. “Alright,” he agreed, following after Paul, who’d turned as soon as he’d spoke to go inside. 

What’s the worst that could happen?


End file.
